Two Turkeys on Boxing Day
by sunburntdaisy
Summary: A christmas tale picking up from the end of As Happy as a Turkey on Boxing Day.


"Don't suppose you have a spare key?" Timmy leaned on the frame of the kitchen door, exhausted or drunk, or both.

Peter turned from the sink, hands still emerged, "Ah, no. Just the one."

Assumpta reached up to put a serving dish away on a high shelf and so she wasn't looking at either the priest or the priest-to-be when she said, "There's a spare room here if you need it."

Timmy didn't hesitate, "That'd be grand."

"I meant for the one of ye doing the dishes."

The young man barely faltered, "Ah, well, sure. Still, that leaves me a proper bed, if you don't mind, Father."

"Go right ahead." Peter shook off one hand and gingerly pulled his keys from his pocket with his wet fingers. The black of his trousers didn't show the damp but he felt it. He felt everything this evening. Losing that car had turned him numb, but three drinks later, a hot meal, and Assumpta being kind... Assumpta being Assumpta really. Sharp as a knife one minute, sensitive to some nuance of feeling and full of empathy the next, calling into question things he'd long held to be true, genuinely interested in what he had to say, not because he was a priest and deserved some kind of allowance, a bit of her time, no, but because he was a friend. She cared about him. What was a car, even the Javelin, to that?

"Thanks." Timmy took the keys, "Promise I'll clean up after myself."

Assumpta followed him out in time to see the last of the others putting on their coats. She said good night and merry christmas again, collected the last few glasses, a missed fork, a plate of chicken bones on a far table, a serviette someone had torn into the shape of a holly leaf.

"Put 'em in." Peter said as she approached. She held onto the plate and the paper leaf but let the rest fall into his sudsy hands.

"Thanks for staying. I swore that I wouldn't end up doing this alone like last year, and what do you know? I'm not."

He just smiled. She pushed the bones into the bin and gave him the last plate. She should probably just chuck the serviette-cum-holly leaf as well but held it up for Peter to see.

"Someone felt inspired." He said.

"Hmm." She agreed and lay it on the table. If he hadn't been there, she'd definitely have chucked it. Her tea towel from earlier, hung over the back of a dining chair, was too damp to be any use. She pulled out another and kept on drying. "Where was Timmy sleeping before?"

"Who? Oh, sleeping bag on the floor. Bit of a boy scout that one."

"That's what I said about you when you first got here."

"Did I prove you wrong?"

"Oh, I'd say so."

He laughed, pulling the plug but still searching the dregs of dishwasher for any run-away teaspoons. "Want a cuppa?"

"There's most of a bottle of burgundy waiting for us on the bar."

"Genius, y'are." He dried his hands off on the damp tea towel. "So who were these friends of yours?" He went through to fetch the wine and glasses.

"My room mate and a few others from college." She wiped down the bench and tried not to watch him, talking instead. "You know how it is, you were so close once, it's hard to imagine the distance that's grown but then you get together and it's glaringly obvious."

He nodded.

"Marian has a wine bar in London so you'd think we'd have loads in common." She dried off her hands and then regretted giving up an occupation for her restless fingers.

"She wanted you to go in with her."

Assumpta nodded and took the glass he offered. "Cheers."

He drank, and watched her do the same.

She felt his gaze as if it were touch, real and undeniable. A look, on the other hand, was entirely deniable. She grabbed the bottle. Turning the light off in the kitchen, she left Peter in the dark for a moment, leading him out to the lounge. The fire was low, the tree lights blinking but far from brilliant with all the room lights on. She knelt on the floor to stir up the fire.

Peter took a seat far at the other end of the sofa, letting the world shrink away, leaving only this circle of light around the pair of them.

Once the fire was back to life Assumpta leaned around behind the tree and adjusted the lights. They stopped blinking. "There." She sat back and turned to him. "I'd rather get a headache from this stuff, though it might be just good enough that we've nothing to worry about."

"I feel quite spoiled." Peter held his glass up to the light.

Assumpta considered the tree a moment then got up. She put the wine bottle on the end of the bar, away from the fire, then turned off the light for the lounge part of the room. The patch of shadow brought the tree to life. "There." She said.

"So you do like Christmas?" He shielded his surprise, watching her all the while.

"Bits of it. You?"

"Sure."

"Like many things, good in theory." Assumpta returned to sit on the floor beside the fire, where she'd left her wine glass. They sat like that in silence a while, watching the tree, the fire, occasionally, briefly each other. Eventually she spoke, "If they had shown up, I would probably have spent most of the evening feeling as if Ballykay is terrible shabby compared with the London lights, or worse I'd have started defending it, and then it'd be even less likely I could leave."

The question came to him, terrified him, but he had to ask. "Do you want to go?" When she didn't answer he went on, "I mean, you're free to do as you please, after all. No one can send you off willy-nilly."

"Maybe I should send myself off." She said, quiet enough that perhaps he wasn't supposed to have heard. She kept her eyes fixed on the tree lights and voiced a suspicion. "You sent yourself off, when you came here, am I right?"

"I didn't choose Ballykay, but yeah, leaving Manchester, that was up to me." This was hardly revealing a thing. She'd known that ever since she'd taken Jenny's key over in the rain. That was the last time he'd slept here. The only time he'd slept here. He watched Assumpta, framed by firelight, wine glass to her lips but not drinking. He wanted to know if this _thing _was eating at her like it was eating at him. If this _thing_ would drive her from her home. "What have you got to run away from?"

She turned and looked at him for a moment, then smiled, "Who'd go into business with someone who'd leave you high and dry on Christmas anyway?"

He nodded. That had to hurt, from an old friend, from any friend. "Sorry."

"You've nothing to apologise for."

"Not this time maybe. But we all walk out on you, don't we, all the time. Like the least grateful dinner party in the world."

"It's just business."

"Not to you."

She met his gaze again. This was too unfair but she was too far in to stop just now. There'd be an out soon, and she'd take it, but not yet. "Well, you didn't walk out on me." She said.

"I did once though."

She'd rehashed their conversation of that other night, months ago now. She'd gone over it in her head too many times. "I probably deserved it, in that one instance."

"Why?"

"Asking you things like that, considering – well." She finished the last of her glass, "Maybe I should send myself off." How many glasses had she had tonight? Words just tumbling out like that. She could feel his eyes on her, couldn't resist looking up. Where was that out? There was always an out. They'd had a thousand of these nearly-there conversations. One or other of them always ducked out. They gave one another exit-passes with every other jibe. She'd be as much frustrated as relieved, but they could go on as they did, the kind of friendship that came along once, maybe twice, in a lifetime and wasn't worth the risk.

Oh, the risk.

He looked right at her. If she ran, she'd be running away _from_ _him_. And now he knew it.

She pulled her gaze away, no point denying it. "Not to worry. I'll get past it. These things never last, they just ruin friendships." Somehow she was managing to hold her breath and speak at the same time. "It needn't be the case." She looked at him again, for a moment. "'Nother glass?" She stood up, went to the bar for the bottle. A drink was the last thing she needed, probably, but imperative now. Her fingers slipped on the cork. He'd put it back in too far.

He stepped up beside her and took the bottle. She couldn't look at him.

"You want to know what I was afraid of, back then?"

"You don't need to do this, Peter."

"I was afraid that the thing I what I wanted was out of reach, that the trying for it – that in trying I'd risk everything, hurt everyone I care about," he huffed out a breath, bit down hard, then added, "and me." He shifted his jaw, the words difficult, no doubt. "I was, I am still, afraid to risk a friendship that means more to me than - " he tilted his head till she looked at him. "That means too much. But maybe the not trying, that might also -" he swallowed, struggling, "might be much worse."

She couldn't be hearing him right; hearing what she wanted to hear, misunderstanding him like she so often did. If only he'd say it straight up, no more wary, round-about ways. She wasn't feeling brave enough to tell him the god's honest truth and nothing but the truth, but she was bold enough to ask it of him, "What was it that you wanted?"

He took a breath, held it, then exhaled, "I want you."

She stopped, lips falling open. She held on to the bar, watching him, eyes wide. "What?"

He looked almost sad. "I have tried to _get past _it but," her very words from his lips sounded so desperate, "I want you in my life, no matter what it takes. Just don't run away from me."

Baffled, she nearly smiled, but concern clouded it all. Her mind was spinning. This was not simple. This was not a good idea. "Peter," she was out of breath, beyond herself, "this is a huge step."

"Maybe it's time to take some huge steps."

His confidence was contagious but a marvel in its own right. "You're talking about - " she couldn't say 'leaving the priesthood', not before he did.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I am."

"You're thinking about it or - " she couldn't let him say it just yet, "You need to think about this. Consider all the - " she stepped back, eyes dropping to the open throat of his shirt. She'd thought about it, of course, knew it was a possibility, but faced with the reality, every self-doubt had grown to goliath proportions. "How can you be so sure?" Of me? she thought, but didn't say.

"When Niamh told me you might leave, I panicked. That's not a normal reaction."

"No, but don't you need to, ah," she searched his expression for any hint of doubt.

"Think it through? Pray about it? I have done. Of course I have. You don't want this?"

"No, it's not that."

"It's okay." He turned away, leaning back on the bar. "It's a lot of pressure, I know."

She was almost reassured by his reticence. At least he was being honest now, realistic. "It's _all_ I want."

He closed his eyes then dared look at her, almost pleading. "Don't leave."

She smiled. As if she could leave.

"I know I've no right to ask you." He put the bottle back on the bar.

"Ask me what?"

"To wait – I don't know how long it'll take."

She looked at the cork, well-stuck in place. "I'll wait." She said. She'd already been waiting, though she'd barely acknowledged what had been going on. She looked at his hands on the wine bottle, pale, long fingers that were all-but-forbidden to touch her unless drawing a cross.

They'd need a cork screw. She turned away from him and leaned over the bar, but couldn't quite reach.

He looked baffled, clearly not thinking about the wine.

"It's stuck." She pointed to the bottle and went around behind the bar.

"Right."

"I don't know about you but I could do another glass." She popped the cork.

He smiled finally, properly.

She handed him the open bottle. "You pour. I'll put another log on the fire."

He brought their full glasses back into the lounge and sat on the floor beside her, stretching his legs out toward the Christmas tree. He crossed his ankles and the big toe of his foot knocked a low branch. Ornaments jingled, branches rustling, then stilled to silence.

She turned to him and took the offered glass.

"To us?" He said.

With a hint of a hopeful smile she tapped her glass to his, "Worth a try."

He didn't drink right away, "Is this going to go down like a tonne of bricks?"

"It won't be quite as smooth as the vino." She held his gaze; the reassurance in his eyes. "Don't suppose you'd conceal a recording device in your jacket when you tell Father Mac. Call it my Christmas present."

He laughed, took a drink, thought a moment. "I nearly got you something. Thought I'd let on too much."

"What was it?"

"I hadn't decided."

"I got you something."

"You did?"

"Wasn't sure I'd ever give it to you." She got up on her knees and pulled a tiny package from between the branches. "There."

He scratched at the tape and pealed it away, savouring this one gift that wasn't a box of obligation chocolates from a parishioner.

It was a sheep. A christmas tree ornament sheep.

He smiled, not sure if he should laugh. It was clearly old, maybe antique. Maybe an heirloom. But he didn't understand why she'd give him this.

"It's wooden."

They had once collaborated to steal one of Eamon's wooden sheep, after all. "Made you think of me?"

She laughed, "It's part of a set." She pointed to the tree, "There's an angel, a cow, a baby, the whole lot of it."

"Well at least I didn't get the cow."

"The shepherd was broken when I pulled down the box of decorations. His staff snapped in half."

"So that was what reminded you of me?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay." He took her hand, his fingers burrowing into her palm, his thumb pressing against the peaks of her knuckles. "I don't have a tree."

She sat back down beside him. "Go on then."

He hung it beside the other pieces of the nativity scene. "Eamon's ones never were quite that detailed."

She shook her head.

He spoke again eventually. "No one had ever done anything like that for me."

"Given you a christmas ornament?"

"No, I mean that petition."

"Oh."

"You were always a friend to me. Even when I was a stranger – and English." He shook his head, "And a priest."

"You got up Father Mac's nose, what can I say? I was charmed."

He laughed.

"I may not believe in all that stuff, the smells and bells and all that." She lifted her glass to her lips; she didn't believe in that bit either, come to think of it, but no need to rub his face in their differences. "I believed in you. Not from the word go, but it didn't take long."

"Waking you up in the middle of the night so I could perform a sacrament you don't believe in?"

"But you did; you believed. You still do." She bravely met his gaze. "In all that and in people. Most of all, maybe, in people. No matter what it cost you." She sighed, blowing out through pursed lips, "You still do."

He wasn't sure if it was a question, but answered anyway, "Yep."

"Aren't you going to regret this?" She asked, knowing what he'd say and knowing she'd struggle to believe it. Knowing he couldn't possibly predict.

He just shook his head, a gentle smiled on his wine-stained lips. "I love you."

Giving in she smiled, closed her eyes a moment, shook her head then nodded. Resistance was impossible. "I love you." She said then looked him in the eye again. "Let's hope that's enough."

He beamed, glanced at her mouth but resisted. "What else is there?"

* * *

The wine was gone, the fire too warm, and they were both tired. It was Boxing day now, had been for an hour or two, technically. Assumpta switched off the lights in the pub, leaving their glasses on bar, and showed Peter up to a guest room. He hovered on the threshold while she went to the linen cupboard for towels. "If you want a bath it's there." She pointed, "I'm there," the next door along, "if you need anything."

He nodded and whispered. "Good night."

She smiled bright. "Yeah, it was." She looked at her watch. "Not for much longer though. Sleep well." She put her hand to his chest for a moment, almost pushing off.

She closed the door of her bedroom, sat on her bed, put both hands to her face and muttered, "Oh my god," into her fingers. Any moment she felt she must laugh or cry, or both, but she sat there shivering uncomfortably, her chest tight, mind spinning.

She heard the loo flush, a tap running. He wouldn't have anything with him. He hadn't planned to stay. She went out into the hall as he opened the bathroom door. "I think I might have a spare toothbrush." She said.

"Oh, great." He let her go past, into the bathroom.

"There." She held it up and he stepped up to the vanity.

"Thanks."

"Help yourself to, you know." She laughed. She was far too nervous, too silly. He just nodded, put toothpaste on the brush and then passed her the tube.

"Right." She nodded, then brushed her teeth, trying not to fall in rhythm with him.

"Don't worry." He said, between spitting and rinsing. "It's just one night."

"No, it's not that." She ran the tap. "It's just a lot to process, is all."

He nearly laughed at the understatement, nodding. "What am I going to do?"

"What?"

"For a living."

"Oh, well you can forget Pope for a start."

He laughed, rubbing his hand to his tired eyes.

She lifted her hand to his arm. "Don't worry about that tonight."

"Yeah, I know." There was barely a space between them as it was, in that small bathroom, but he took one baby step and it vanished. She reached her strong slender arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight.

"You can always work here." She said into his collar. "You know how hard it is to find good staff."

"Who says I'm any good?"

"You think Father Mac would do you a written reference?"

He laughed and released her. Meeting her gaze he stopped, lost. Or found, maybe, but definitely out of his depth. "Good night."

On her nod he turned and went to his room, she to hers, and neither got much sleep despite the hour, the feast or the wine.

* * *

She heard him get up in the morning and there was no returning to slumber after that. She'd never taken a faster shower, probably. Still, Peter was fully clothed if a little rumpled, and waiting on tea brewing when she stepped up to the kitchen door. She lingered at the entrance, savouring the picture of him pottering about in his socks as if he lived here. "Good morning."

He jumped, "Oh, hey. Tea?"

"Sure." She sat down at the table. If she'd ever been up this early, the day after a party, she must have been making an escape, hoping to avoid an awkward morning-after encounter. This was hardly the same thing, but maybe he'd better not get caught on his way out. "You were thinking of sneaking home, but not without a cup of tea first?"

"I was thinking about it. But so long as I'm sneaking at all someone might think I've something to hide."

"Ideally, if you're sneaking, no one sees you."

He nodded and poured the tea. "Boxing day. Even Kathleen Hendley might have her eyes closed."

"No, you're right. The streets of ballykay are never safe."

He laughed and put her cup on the table.

"Thanks."

Drinks set, he took the opposite chair and looked at her for a good half a minute.

"What?"

"Nothing in particular." He smiled. "Wouldn't want to take this for granted."

She picked up her tea cup, a kind of toast in agreement. After drinking she spoke, "So you'll walk out there, brave-faced and," she shook her head, "I'd sneak."

"Even if no one sees me, Timmy knows."

"And Father Mac won't be far behind him." She put down the piping hot mug.

"I suspect in this one instance Father Mac might be an ally. He won't want a scandal in his parish, won't want the reputation of the church sullied. He might even reign in one or two of the more prolific gossips."

Assumpta smiled. No need for names there. "Is he already aware of any, ah, any of this?"

Peter hesitated. "I doubt he'll be entirely surprised. If I don't mention your name, he'll guess it in one."

"He'll try to talk you out of it."

Peter nodded.

She watched him, wary. She wouldn't ask for promises, for assurance. The proof would be in the pudding. Her tea was cool enough to drink now.

He shifted in his seat. "Will you open the pub today?"

"Probably."

"Would it be easier if I stayed away?"

She shook her head without pausing to consider.

He suspected it wasn't true, but he had no desire to stay away, even if it was the wise thing to do. All he wanted was to be near her. He could be careful, guarded, even sneaky. But he wouldn't be able to steer clear, not for long. If he'd had that ability they wouldn't be in this mess.

Although it seemed less of a mess than ever just now, in the pale light and silence. Their sock-clad feet were not quite touching on the chilly linoleum beneath the dining table. Assumpta leaned back in her chair, nursing her tea, and caught sight of his thin black socks, stretched over big feet. Her baggy blue bed socks should have been embarrassing but she reached across the final few centimeters till they touched.

He jumped again, then smiled.

"You're jumpy in the morning." She said, her toes resting on his, but no longer moving.

He nodded. "Used to living alone, I guess."

So was she, in fact, but he'd signed up for it forever. She'd never understood how a man – or any person – came to such a decision. "Don't you just long to - " she shook her head, to far in now to back out, though she realised the question was intrusive, "to be touched."

"There are different types of touch, but yeah. Of course." He lifted his other foot and covered her toes, sandwiching them between his. "Never so much as I do now."

She raised her eyebrows at yet another wave of realisation; this was going to be a major shift for Peter. For them both, yes, but for him in some remarkable and rather unique ways. Once again she nearly asked if he was sure. She finished her tea instead. Then shivered. "I might get a fire going. Are you sneaking or staying."

He closed his eyes. "How am I supposed to leave?"

"You always managed it in the past." She walked out of the kitchen.

"Small miracle, that."

"Is there such a thing as a boxing day miracle?" She called back to him

He followed her through, tea in hand. "I don't think there was such a thing as a boxing _day_, back in Bethlehem."

"There wasn't Christmas either." She pointed out. "Well, not until after the first one, or so the story goes, right?" She scrunched up newspaper and piled it up in the hearth.

"Can I help?"

"I've got it."

He sat down. "I won't stay long."

"Cereal or toast? Breakfast usually comes with a room."

"Oh, you don't need to - "

"It's fine." She lay kindling over the paper then hunted through the wood basket for smaller logs. "You did the tea."

"Made myself at home. I didn't think you'd be up so early."

"My reputation precedes me."

"Well, you have to stay up late."

She lit a match and watched the paper catch, one bundle, then another, then another. Once the kindling was alight she moved to sit beside Peter. Not quite brave enough to meet his eye, she looked at his knee, then sighed.

"What?"

"I can't believe you're really going to - " she still couldn't say it.

"Leave the priesthood." He tried out the words.

She met his gaze.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to change my mind."

Her breath caught. If only she could just _not worry, _by sheer force of will, as easy as that.

He raised his hand to her face, thumb tracing the swell of her cheek. "There might be a few weeks of secrecy, and very little proof that this real, but we've waited and wondered for months." His eyes lingered far to long on her mouth. "It's easier to wait for a bus you know's coming."

She laughed, turned her face a smidgen and pressed her cheek into his palm, her lips grazing the heel of his hand when she spoke. "Quite the bus."

He leaned in, painfully slow, eyes fixed on hers and open until the moment their lips met. His breath was warm, lips dry, soft for a moment before capturing her bottom lip with a tentative tug. "Oh man." He muttered, a shaky exhale tickling her lip, teasing. She reached for more just as he did the same, mouths pressing together. They clung there, nearly still, then parted a fraction. He lifted his hands as if to cup her face but hesitated. "I love you." He put his arms around her. She slipped her hands up the sides of his body, burrowed her face into his neck, spread her fingers wide as they'd go across his back. This was so much, this little thing.

"I love you." She feared he might not have heard, her voice this weak breathy thing she barely recognised.

He squeezed her tighter. He'd heard.


End file.
